Good Tired
by SweetSinger2010
Summary: Jacen's got a sunburn on his face and dirt beneath his fingernails. Hera decides that this new, peaceful life looks good on him.


A/N: Alright, so, this is a weird one. You'll see. Came to me a bit ago. The initial inspiration came from real events; today was finally, _finally_ the last day of school and my brain is fried, and I ended up taking an extra-long shower because I really couldn't remember whether I washed my hair or not. So I washed it twice (maybe?) and a fic was born. Anyway, enjoy this if you can.

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Good Tired

Exhaustion is when you've got your hand on the knob to turn off the shower and then you think, _Did I rinse the shampoo out of my hair? Did I even_ _ **wash**_ _my hair?_ So you sigh because you just. can't. remember. and you take the hand that _was_ going to turn off the shower and you bring it up to your head so you can feel your hair and try to figure this out and then, just a second too late, you remember:

You don't _have_ hair.

You're a Twi'lek.

Always have been.

And so you turn off the shower and get out and towel off, a little more tired than before, and a little embarrassed even though you were alone for that epically absent-minded moment. Your son, though—you think dimly as you pull on your pajamas—your half-human son; did you remember to wash _his_ hair when it was bath time? Surely you did, and surely you remembered to rinse it, too. You hope so. His head was so full of grass and dirt and you-don't-know-what-all after his long day's romp outside. His smile was full of sunshine, and his little, red cheeks, too. You've triple-checked with Sabine, making sure that the sunburn _will_ go away and that he won't be any worse for the wear because of it. You'll definitely remember to reapply the UV-blocker the next time Jacen's outside for that long.

Outside. You can't remember the last time you got to spend _this_ much time beneath Lothal's blue sky without worrying when you have to leave it again.

You sigh as you drop into bed beside your baby son—even though he's almost five he'll _always_ be your baby—who fell asleep waiting for you to come tuck him in. You brush his wild, damp hair aside and you see that the sun kissed more than just his cheeks. Color lingers on his forehead, on the bridge of his nose and are those _freckles_ dusting his cheekbones? You laugh, because his father didn't have freckles and neither do you and this is just one more thing that makes your child so perfectly himself. He always sleeps with one hand splayed on his chest and you see that there's still dirt under his fingernails even though you tried _so hard_ to scrub him clean, but you see his peaceful expression and you remember his joyous laughter as he chased that Loth-cat and you decide maybe outside and a little dirt aren't the worst things in the galaxy.

Especially now that the war's over.

Well—

Not over _over_ , but it's been a couple of months now since Endor and hope and light have spread through the galaxy from the inside out and for the first time in your entire life, the last thing you think about before you go to sleep at night _isn't_ something frightening.

You turn out the light, ready for restful, well-earned sleep.

Tonight, you're not worried about the Empire at all. You're thinking about the picnic you're planning for tomorrow, and you're thinking about how there's so much more of Lothal you want to show Jacen now that you have time, now that you're not running off to fly your next dangerous mission. The only dangerous mission coming up for you is figuring out how to tell your children—the boy you gave birth to and the grow-up Mandalorian he loves like a second mother—that no, they will _not_ be going out to shoot Sabine's Westars at rocks for target practice, thank you.

You're not sure which of them will sulk more, but you're confident they'll get over it fairly quickly.

You roll to your side and you groan when you do it because somehow, without your permission, your body has advanced to that age when sometimes your back hurts for _no reason at all_. The dull ache will take a while to subside, but you forget about it when you hear a sleepy

"Mama?"

You nod, even though it's dark and neither of you can see. "It's me."

He stretches, yawning. "You 'kay?"

"Of course, love. Shh. Go back to sleep." He's so sweet; you hope it lasts forever.

"You made a noise." He's unconvinced, clearly.

"I'm just tired. Shh." You reach over and pat his leg reassuringly. He sits up in an instant, putting a little hand to your forehead.

"You sick?" He's doing this because _your_ response to him saying _I'm tired_ is always to ask if he's feeling alright; he never complains of fatigue unless he's sick.

"No, I promise." You smile at his concern and you wrap your arms around him because you love him and also because you really, _really_ want him to settle back down. If he starts talking now, he won't stop for an hour and you're not sure you have an hour of listening in you.

"But you said you're tired." He's nothing if not persistent and his childlike compassion warms you straight to the core—just like Lothal's sun, just like the joy you feel on days like today when you can just be _mama_ and _Hera_ and not _General Syndulla_ or anyone else.

You kiss the top of your little boy's head and your eyes prick with tears because you know that the last time you went off and left him _was_ the last time, and that you're on the cusp of a peaceful life. You sigh, achingly content for the first time in years. "It's a good tired, love."


End file.
